“As I say, that’s what I thought before I read this. But Miss Williams doesn’t sound like that at all. She doesn’t sound in the least incompetent—”
“Not at all. She is still a very efficient and intelligent woman.”
“I know. One can see that. And she sounds absolutely trustworthy too. That’s what has upset me really. Oh, you know—you understand. You don’t mind, of course. All along you’ve made it clear it was the truth you wanted. I suppose now we’ve got the truth! Miss Williams is quite right. One must accept truth. It’s no good basing your life on a lie because it’s what you want to believe. All right then—I can take it! My mother wasn’t innocent! She wrote me that letter because she was weak and unhappy and wanted to spare me. I don’t judge her. Perhaps I should feel like that too. I don’t know what prison does to you. And I don’t blame her either—if she felt so desperately about my father, I suppose she couldn’t help herself. But I don’t blame my father altogether either. I understand—just a little—how he felt. So alive—and so full of wanting everything…He couldn’t help it—he was made that way. And he was a great painter. I think that excuses a lot.”
She turned her flushed excited face to Hecule Poirot with her chin raised defiantly.
Hercule Poirot said:
“So—you are satisfied?”
“Satisfied?” said Carla Lemarchant. Her voice broke on the word.
Poirot leant forward and patted her paternally on the shoulder.
“Listen,” he said. “You give up the fight at the moment when it is most worth fighting. At the moment when I, Hercule Poirot, have a very good idea of what really happened.”
Carla stared at him. She said:
“Miss Williams loved my mother. She saw her—with her own eyes—faking that suicide evidence. If you believe what she says—”
Hercule Poirot got up. He said:
“Mademoiselle, because Cecilia Williams says she saw your mother faking Amyas Crale’s fingerprints on the beer bottle—on the beer bottle, mind—that is the only thing I need to tell me definitely, once for all, that your mother did not kill your father.”
He nodded his head several times and went out of the room, leaving Carla staring after him.
Two
POIROT ASKS FIVE QUESTIONS
I
“Well, Mr. Poirot?”
Philip Blake’s tone was impatient.
Poirot said:
“I have to thank you for your admirable and lucid account of the Crale tragedy.”
Philip Blake looked rather self-conscious.
“Very kind of you,” he murmured. “Really surprising how much I remembered when I got down to it.”
Poirot said:
“It was an admirably clear narrative, but there were certain omissions, were there not?”
“Omissions” Philip Blake frowned.
Hercule Poirot said:
“Your narrative, shall we say, was not entirely frank.” His tone hardened. “I have been informed, Mr. Blake, that on at least one night during the summer, Mrs. Crale was seen coming out of your room at a somewhat compromising hour.”
There was a silence broken only by Philip Blake’s heavy breathing. He said at last: “Who told you that?”
Hercule Poirot shook his head.